Flying
by Erin T. Aardvark
Summary: Mike tries to master the art of flying (please read my fanfic, "Monkee Magic" before you read this one, kthnxbye)
1. Chapter 1

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm sure you're getting tired of me saying this, but believe me, it must be said. Please read my first Monkees story, "Monkee Magic" before reading this one, if you haven't already, because it explains quite a bit of things. I say this at the beginning of every story, because with every new story posted here, the old ones kind of get lost in the shuffle. Thanks._

* * *

Mike soared through the sky on his broomstick. He had finally mastered the art of flying one, which had to be part of every witch's and warlock's life. He flew through the night sky, looking down at the world below, enjoying every minute of it. Suddenly, dark clouds filled the air. Thunder and lightning appeared out of nowhere. Mike tried to get out of the storm, but it was no use. A bolt of lightning zapped out of the clouds, and hit the back of Mike's broom. That was all it took for him to lose control. He plummeted downward, straight out of the sky. The ground grew closer, closer, and closer until finally . . . . .

CRASH!

Once Mike crash landed on the floor, he woke up from his dream. That also woke Micky up.

"Mike, you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mike said, standing up. "I'm okay. Just dreamin' again."

"What was it this time?"

"I actually mastered the art of flyin' a broomstick."

"That'll be the day."

"You think I can't do it?"

"Well, you always crash whenever you try."

Mike didn't answer. He just climbed back into bed and went back to sleep. The next morning at the breakfast, he was telling the others about his dream.

"I'm gonna be able to fly a broomstick one of these days," he said.

"Do witches still fly broomsticks?" Davy asked. "I thought they'd be a little more up to date by now."

"Well, some still use broomsticks," Mike said. "Aunt Kate told me I have a cousin that flies a vacuum cleaner."

"And you fly a broom," Davy said.

"Give me a break, Davy," Mike said, rolling his eyes. "A witch or warlock can take any old broom and turn it into a mode of transportation. You have to buy enchanted vacuums and the prices of those are ridiculous. I can't even afford a new broom!"

Davy laughed, and shook his head. Mike went over to the other side of the room, and picked up his spell book. There had to be something in there about the art of flying a broomstick. At noon, he decided to just take a broom, go out onto the beach, and attempt to fly it. Davy, Micky, and Peter were with him, giving him moral support. Plus, they wanted to see how it was done. Mike explained what he was doing as he was doing it.

"First you gotta straddle this sucker," he said. "Kinda like when you get on a horse. After you're standin' like this, you pick it up, hold it, and squeeze it."

"Squeeze it?" Micky asked.

"Yeah," Mike said. "That's how we witches and warlocks get it goin'. We transfer some of our magic into regular brooms to make 'em fly. Now stand back. My take offs need a little work."

"So do your landings," Davy said.

Mike glared at Davy. He squeezed the broom, and concentrated as hard as he could. The broom began to rev up, like a motorcycle. Then it a split second, it shot straight upward. Micky, Davy, and Peter stared at the Texan Monkee in surprise. It was obvious Mike needed more practice. The three of them ran after him, making sure he didn't get hurt. Mike flew straight into the park, gripping the broom for dear life. Micky, Davy, and Peter ran into the park after him.

"Mike! Why don't you just land that thing?!" Davy called.

"I don't know how!" Mike shouted. With that, Mike crashed directly into a tree.

"Ooohhhhhhh," Micky, Davy, and Peter grimaced.

Mike groaned, and climbed out of the tree, broomstick in his hand, and kitten resting in his wool hat.

"You've got a cat on your head," Micky said, taking it off.

"It was stuck up the tree," Mike said, brushing the leaves off of him. "I got it down. Good thing I crashed, huh?"

"More or less," Peter said. "Mike, I think I know the problem."

"What's that?" Mike asked, brushing himself off.

"You don't know what the heck you're doing," Peter said. "I mean, you have absolutely no control over that broom!"

"You're right," Mike said. "I need professional help. There's only one person to call."

The Monkees then started back to the Pad so Mike could get in touch with his aunt in Texas.


	2. Practice Does Not Make Perfect

Once the Monkees went back to their pad, Mike picked up the phone, and called his aunt Kate in Texas.

"Michael, I know you've been wantin' to learn to fly that broomstick," Kate said. "But I can't help you. I'm too old to ride a broomstick."

"Aunt Kate, you're only in your late forties!" Mike shouted. "That's not old! Come on, you have to teach me. You know Mom's never around to help me with these things, and you're the only one I know who can help!"

"Look, Michael, the only thing I can tell you to do is practice. That's all I can say."

Mike sighed, hung up the phone, and decided to give the broom another shot. He straddled it, squeezed it, and shot upward once again, this time, banging his head on the ceiling.

"Ow!" he shouted. Then he crashed to the ground, landing flat on his rear end.

"You all right?" Micky asked, coming into the room.

"Oh yeah," Mike said, standing up. "Just banged my head on the ceilin', that's all."

"Mm hmm," Micky said, nodding. "How many times do I have to tell you not to practice flying in the house, Mike?"

Mike picked up his broom and left. What he needed was a good flight instructor. He told that to the other Monkees, and the three of them just started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Mike asked.

"Well, this whole thing," Davy said. "You know 'ow to play the guitar, right? And you can't fly a simple broomstick?"

"What kind of a warlock are you?" Micky asked.

"Oh, stuff it," Mike said. Then he walked off, leaving the other Monkees laughing their heads off about the entire situation.

At any rate, Mike went out back out to the beach again to give it another shot. He dropped his broom, rubbed his hands together, picked it back up, straddled it, squeezed it, and waited. Once again, he shot upward. Davy and Micky walked out once he did.

"Is it supposed to just shoot up there like a bullet coming out of a gun?" Micky asked.

"I dunno," Davy replied. Suddenly, Mike came crashing down, like a dive bomber, complete with sound effects.

WHAM!

"Mike, are you okay?" Micky asked.

"Yeah," Mike said. "I'm all right. Sure."

"Good, 'cause I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure, shoot."

"Is it supposed to shoot up there like a bullet coming out of a gun?"

"Now what do you think?"

"No?"

"Bingo."

Mike stood up, picked up his broom and walked off. Micky looked at Davy and shrugged. Then the two of them followed Mike. They stopped at the street corner.

"What are you gonna do with that broom now, Mike?" Davy asked.

"Try and beat the traffic," Mike said. "Watch this."

"Uhh, I don't think you should try it, Mike," Davy said. "I mean, not 'ere. Especially with your take offs and all. I mean, someone might see you, and you might get hurt."

"Listen, Davy," Mike said. "It's rush hour, and nobody's going to be payin' any attention to me. And it's a perfectly open area! I can't possibly get hurt unless I crash land in the middle of the street."

"But Mike, listen a minute!"

Mike didn't listen. He straddled his broom, squeezed it and shot upward. But he didn't get too far. He collided with the street lamp. CLANG! And then he crashed landed, knocking himself out. Micky grimaced and let out a loud groan.

"You're standing below a street lamp," Davy said.

"Come on, Dave," Micky said. "We'd better get him to a doctor or something."

Davy nodded, and helped Micky pull Mike into a standing position. Then they practically dragged him to the doctor's office. Mike regained consciousness once they got inside.

"Now how did you get that concussion?" the doctor asked.

"I bumped my head on a street light," Mike said.

"Normally, I'd tell you to watch where you were going, but this bump's on the top of your head. Explain please."

"Trust me, doc, you'd _never_ believe it!"

The doctor left it at that, and the three Monkees went back home.

Once back at the Pad, Mike went back to the beach to get some practice in. The other three were watching him.

"If it isn't supposed to shoot up like that, what is it supposed to do?" Peter asked.

"Rise up gradually, and then go forward," Mike said. "I just haven't gotten the hang of it yet."

"Maybe if you got up on the roof and jumped from it," Davy suggested. "That might be your problem."

"Hmmmm," Mike said, thoughtfully. "Could be."

Mike went inside, and ran up the steps. He was now on the roof of the Pad. He straddled his broom and squeezed it. Then he jumped off the roof. He staid in mid air for about two seconds. Then he came crashing down. He landed on top of their landlord, Mr. Babbit.

"Argh!" he shouted.

"Uh, sorry, Mr. Babbit," Mike said, a little sheepishly. "But thanks for breakin' my fall."

"Yeah," Mr. Babbit said, sourly. "Do that again, and I'll break more than your fall!"

Mike shrugged and then glared at Davy. Davy laughed sheepishly, and then went back inside. Micky and Peter others followed, not wanting to get in the way of Mike's temper. Mike shook his head, took his broom, and continued to try flying it. Franky was watching from the window as he did.

"Maybe he oughta watch movies with witches in them," he said. "Maybe he'll be able to pick up what he's doing wrong."

"Good idea," Peter said. "But I have a feeling he won't want to hear it right now."

Franky shrugged and went to the kitchen table to do his homework. Mike continued flying that broom stick for awhile. Finally he crashed directly through the window and hit the floor face first.

"That had to hurt," Franky said.

"You ain't kiddin', buster," Mike said, standing up. "I may have knocked my jaw out of alignment."

"Maybe you should quit for the day, Mike," Peter said.

Mike nodded. He agreed to stop for the day, but he planned on picking up where he left off the next day.

Morning rolled around, and it was back to square one. Mike picked up the broom, straddled it, and squeezed. It shot up in the air like a bullet coming out of a gun (as usual), and then took off faster than a bullet! He had to hold onto the broom for dear life! It was like that broom had turbo speed. He was going so fast, he caused a giant wind wherever he passed. He blew some man's toupee right off his head. Newspapers went flying all over the place. Mike crashed through store windows (coming out without a scratch amazingly), destroyed displays, and he was still going! He continued along a path of destruction, but it was all unintentional. He was flying too low, and too fast. Things got in his way, since he couldn't stop that broom, so whatever was in his path got demolished. Finally, he came back to the Pad, and plowed through the back doors. The other three Monkees had to move out of the way pretty fast to avoid getting hit.

"Heads up!" Micky shouted.

Finally, Mike crashed directly into the wall, which finally stopped him.

"Ooooohhhhhh," the other three Monkees groaned, grimacing.

"That _'ad_ to _hurt_!" Davy shouted. "'Ey Mike, ah you okay?"

"Anybody get the license number of that truck?" Mike asked, somewhat in a daze. He shook his head to regain his bearings.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Mike said. "I'm all right."

"Do us all a favor, Mike," Micky said. "Don't learn to ride that thing."

Mike just glared at the drummer. He was about to go back outside to practice, when he thought better of it. Instead, he decided to pick up his spell book, and study it to see if he could figure out what the heck he was doing wrong. He was so absorbed in it, he was startled a bit when Franky got home from school, and slammed the front door.

"Hey guys!" he shouted. "I need a _huge_ favor!"

"Do me a favor first, shotgun," Mike said, closing his book. "Don't slam the door."

"Sorry," Franky said, a little sheepishly.

"So what's the favor?" Micky asked.

"My school's having a carnival on Saturday," Franky said, "and they need parent volunteers."

"And you told us we'd play, right?" Mike asked.

"Well . . . not exactly," Franky said.

"Then what exactly?" Mike asked.

"Well . . . ." Franky said, a bit hesitantly. "They assigned me and this girl to work at the dunk tank, and . . . ."

"You must be joking!" Davy shouted.

"Wha?" Micky asked. "The _dunk_ tank?"

"I don't know about that," Mike said.

"Why, Mike?" Davy asked, with a chuckle. "Afraid you'll melt?"

"What a world, what a world!" Micky shouted, imitating the Wicked Witch of the West from _The Wizard of Oz_.

"Cut that out!" Mike shouted, giving Micky a whap in the shoulder.

"Come on, you guys, please!" Franky shouted. "It's for a good cause! The school is talking about getting rid of the art and music programs if they don't get enough money!"

"Yeah, and music _is_ important," Peter said. "Come on, fellas, what do you say?"

"Well . . . ." Mike said, as he thought it over. "Yeah, okay, we'll do it."

"Thanks, fellas!" Franky shouted, giving the Monkees a group hug.


	3. Carnival Chaos

Later, Mike went out back to practice flying his broom. He was still making the same mistakes when he took off. Plus he had no control over the broom, anyway, so that only caused him to crash land. It drove him crazy. Saturday rolled around. The boys were getting ready for the school carnival, but Mike started heading out the back door.

"I'm goin' outside to practice," he said.

"What about the carnival?" Peter asked.

"Hey, man, if you're trying to back out . . . ." Micky started.

"Look, I told you guys that I'd do it," Mike said, "and we all agreed we'd be on shifts for this thing, so that means I don't have to show up until about twelve thirty. That gives me two and a half hours to get practicin' on this broom."

"All right, Mike," Davy said. "We'll see you latah, then."

"Good luck," Peter said.

"Thanks," Mike said, and he went out the back door.

When the three Monkees and Franky got to the middle school, everything was set up.

"It was really great of your uncle and his friends to volunteer for our carnival, Franky," a blond-haired girl named Aimee Armbruster said. She was assigned to the dunk tank with Franky.

"Yeah, they're the greatest," Franky said. "Come on, let's get this show on the road. Hit it, Davy!"

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!" Davy shouted, imitating a carnival barker. "Dunk the Monkee! Three balls for a dollah!"

Micky had drawn the short straw, and wound up being the first of the Monkees to sit on the platform. He was wearing a turn of the century bathing suit, and he didn't look very happy about the whole thing.

"Oh, who could resist?" the first customer of the day asked, shelling a buck out of his wallet. Frankie gave him three balls, and he tossed one at the target, but he missed.

"Eh, you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn!" Micky shouted.

"Oh yeah?" the man asked, and he threw a second ball. Again it missed.

"You pitch like my grandma!" Micky shouted.

"This one won't miss," the man said.

The man threw the third ball, and hit the target in the dead center. Micky got a sick look on his face, and went down into the water. Everybody laughed.

"Thanks, kid," the man said. "That was worth the dollar I paid."

Micky climbed out of the tank, spat water out of his mouth, and heaved a big sigh. Somehow he knew that guy would eventually hit the target.

Meanwhile, Mike was so involved in his practice, he forgot about the time. He was still crashing into things, as well. He hadn't gotten anywhere in practice.

"This is drivin' me nuts!" he shouted. "How long have I been at this, anyway?"

Mike looked at his watch, and realized it was twelve twenty-seven.

"Oh man!" he shouted. "I almost forgot about the carnival!"

Mike began to run off, but he knew it would take him at least fifteen minutes to get to the school from the beach on foot, since Davy, Micky, and Peter had the Monkee Mobile.

"I'm gonna be late!" he shouted. "Unless . . . ."

Mike looked at the broom in his hand. Then he straddled it, and squeezed it. He shot into the air again, and was off. But with no improvement. He was still flying too low, and going much too fast. Mike was grateful about one thing, though. Since he was going so fast, nobody knew what the heck he was, but he was causing quite a bit of chaos. At any rate, he finally approached the school, in record time. At the time, Micky was ready for a break.

"Bet he's sorry you talked him into this, Franky," Peter said, with a laugh, while Micky climbed out of the tank.

"Why do I do these things?" Micky asked.

"Because you like me," Franky said, as he hugged Micky's arm.

"I knew I had a good reason," Micky said, tousling the thirteen-year-old's hair.

Anyway, Aimee was counting the money they had made so far when she stopped suddenly.

"Hey, you guys hear something?" she asked.

"Like what?" Micky asked, looking for a towel to dry off.

"It sounds like a plane dive bombing," Davy said. "But there aren't any planes around."

"That can only mean one thing," Micky said.

"What?" Aimee asked.

She didn't get an answer to that. In a split second, Mike came flying onto the scene, and he smashed straight into the dunk tank, destroying it. And heaven knows, that didn't stop him. He just kept going. Anyway, the water spilled out of the dunk tank, soaking everybody in that area. Micky groaned, since he was already soaked. He just got even more soaked!

Mike continued flying around, trying to control the broom. The next thing he hit was a duck pond game, followed by a football toss game, and then a milk bottle toss. It was like a domino effect with the booths. One fell, and the rest followed. Everybody climbed out from under the mess, and began to talk at once. But Mike didn't stop there. He flew to a face painting booth next. The couple running it saw him coming and moved away as fast as they could, as well as the patrons in line. Mike hit the table, and paint flew everywhere.

"Sunday flyer!" a man in line shouted.

Mike didn't acknowledge him. Next up was the food stand. The people there saw Mike coming, and vacated the vicinity. Mike knocked over the grill, and chicken fell to the ground. He also knocked over tables that had pizza on it, and soda cans and bottles. The picnic area was a mess!

"Mike!" Davy yelled.

"Sorry, Davy!" Mike shouted. "I can't stop this thing!"

"You'd better!" Micky yelled. "Or else someone's going to get hurt!"

Mike shrugged, and did his best to stop the broom, but he just couldn't no matter how hard he tried. The worst was yet to come. Franky was in direct path with the broom, and he wasn't even aware of it! However, Peter was.

"Franky, watch out!" Peter shouted.

Franky turned around, and saw Mike's broom heading right for him. Mike managed to bring it up a little, but it wasn't good enough, and Franky didn't move away in time. The end of the broom hit the thirteen-year-old in the head, right above his eye.

WHACK!

The blow managed to knock Franky off his feet as well. Mike finally stopped when he crashed into the front door of the school. He wasn't hurt, just a little dazed. He stood up, twirled his broom and snapped his fingers to make it disappear before anyone saw it, and walked over to the carnival.

"Well, I made it on time," he said. "To say the least."

The other Monkees just glared at Mike. Mike looked around, and saw that he had caused more damage that he thought. Micky came up to him.

"Mike, I don't know whether to throttle you or thank you!" he shouted.

"For what?" Mike asked.

"For getting us out of the dunk tank," Micky said. "As for throttling you . . . . ."

"You destroyed the carnival!" Davy shouted. "Look at this mess! There's water, paint, food, and anything else all over the place! Not to mention you caused an injury, Mike!"

"Oh, man! Franky! I nearly forgot!" Mike shouted, and he, Davy, and Micky ran over to Franky. Peter was helping him to his feet. He had a dazed look on his face, and his hand on his head. He was too dazed to even speak!

"Franky, are you okay?" Mike asked. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you with the broom, I . . . ."

"Cool it, Mike, cool it," Micky said. "He's pretty shaken up, you know!"

"Move your 'and a minute, mate," Davy said. "I want to see 'ow bad 'e 'it you."

Franky moved his hand. There was a large bruise right above his right eye, which was starting to swell. A thin trickle of blood was coming from a slight gash in the area as well.

"Man, you 'it 'im 'ardah than I thought, Mike!" Davy shouted. "That looks awful!"

"Maybe we oughta take him to the nurse," Peter said.

"You're right, Pete," Davy said. "The soonah the bettah."

Peter stood up, and he and Davy took Franky by the arms, and began to help him toward the school. Mike stepped forward.

"I'll help," he said.

"No thanks, Mike," Davy said, bitterly. "You've done enough!"

"But . . . ." Mike started.

"Maybe you should just leave, Mike," Peter said. "And please, not on that broom."

"Okay," Mike said. "Sure. I guess. But maybe I should help clean up or somethin'."

"NO!" the other three Monkees shouted. That made Mike jump a little.

"Like Davy said, Mike," Micky replied. "You've done enough already."

Mike nodded, and prepared to leave. Everybody else began to clean up the mess. Thankfully, they didn't realize what exactly had caused it. As he was leaving, he could still hear his friends talking about the incident.

"I can't believe he flew that broom here," Micky said. "Look at what he caused this time!"

"I know," Peter said. "He really shouldn't be flying that broom anyway. He doesn't know how to handle it!"

"Some warlock 'e is," Davy said. "'E can't even fly a broom!"

"Do you realize he could've put someone's eye out?" Micky asked.

"I think he almost did," Peter said, indicating Franky, who was still a bit out of it.

Mike heard every word of it. He walked away from the school, broom in hand. Once he was away from his friends, he looked down at his broom. He gripped it as hard as he could, and then took it in both hands. He smashed it against his knee, breaking it into two pieces.

"Never again," he said, throwing the two pieces on the ground.


	4. Giving Up

Mike spent the rest of the day at the Pad. By the time the others got there, they found Mike on the couch, reading one of his magic books.

"Is that a 'ow to book on flying brooms?" Davy teased.

"No," Mike said, calmly. "I've given up on that."

"Really?" Micky asked "How come?"

"I just wasn't any good at it," Mike said, shrugging. He put the book down, just as Peter and Franky came into the room. Franky had a Band-Aid on his forehead, as well as a black eye.

"So, how bad did I give it to him?" Mike asked. He took Franky's chin in his hand, and began examining the thirteen-year-old's shiner.

"Don't worry, Mike," Peter said. "Franky's all right. Just a black eye, and a slight gash in the forehead. The nurse didn't think you gave him a concussion, but she wants us to keep an eye on him, just in case."

"We had to tell her he got hit with a foul ball over at the baseball throw," Micky said.

"Yeah, I doubt she would've believed us if we told 'er 'e was run ovah by a 'it and run broomstick," Davy said.

"I'm real sorry about that, shotgun," Mike said, ignoring Davy. "I didn't mean to clobber you like that."

"It's okay, Mike," Franky said. "I'm not mad at you. After all, it was an accident."

"Well, you will be happy to know I've given up on tryin' to fly that broomstick," Mike said. "I doubt I'll ever be good at it."

"You're kidding!" Peter shouted. "I thought you said all witches and warlocks have to learn how to fly a broom!"

"I did," Mike said. "But I'm not so sure about half warlocks."

"Didn't you say you had a cousin who flew a vaccuum?" Micky asked.

"Yeah, so?" Mike said.

"Maybe you should try flying that," Micky replied.

In response, Mike grabbed a pillow off the couch and hurled it at the drummer as hard as he could.

Monday rolled around. Davy, Peter, and Micky half expected Mike to be out trying to fly his broomstick, but he wasn't. None of them could believe he just up and quit.

"Mike's not usually a quitter," Peter said.

"Yeah, I know," Franky said. "But in a way, I'm kind of glad he did quit. I don't think my head would've been able to take it."

"Very funny," Davy said, sarcastically. "But I 'ave to admit, I'm kind of glad 'e stopped, too. 'Im on a broom . . . . . it was just too dangerous!"

Micky and Peter seemed to agree on that. The harder Mike practiced, the worse his flying was. Nobody was able to figure out why, though. At any rate, Mike spent most of his time reading his magic books and playing his guitar. With any luck, he'd never even set foot on a broom again, or so most of the others hoped. However, when he called his aunt Kate to tell her he quit, she wasn't thrilled.

"You hardly ever quit!" she shouted at him.

"I did this time," Mike said. "I was no good at it."

"I told you, Michael, all you need is some practice."

"Maybe, but I'm still a rotten warlock!"

"Why do you say that?"

"'Cause I can't fly a broom!"

Mike slammed the phone down. The others flinched. They had gotten used to Mike getting frustrated when he was flying his broom, but he was getting very moody since he quit. And that drove them all insane. There was only one thing to do, and that was to convince Mike to get back on the broom and try again.

"Come on, Mike," Davy said. "Why don't you give it anothah try?"

"I just can't do it," Mike said. "I never could. You saw what I did to Franky! I was lucky I didn't hit him lower. I would've poked his eye out. Let's face it, Davy, I'm not cut out for these powers. I'm just a warlock washout."

"What's the matter with you?!" Micky shouted, and he gave Mike a swat upside the head. "You are _not_ a warlock washout! You can't be a quitter! You're a born leader! You're not a quitter! You're a winner!"

"Then I how come I feel like such a loser?" Mike asked.

"I give up," Micky said. He threw his arms up in frustration and walked off. "That's it! I've had it! I try to help, and what do I get?"

Mike just sighed, and started reading through more of his magic books. Then he realized something. Flying a broomstick was part of a witch's, or warlock's, life.

"If I give up flyin' a broom, why should I even bother learnin' all this magic mumbo jumbo?" he asked.

"You say something, Mike?" Davy asked.

"Yeah. I figured if I'm not gonna fly a broom, why should I even have my powers?"

Davy was about to ask Mike what he meant, but before he could, Mike picked up the phone, and called his aunt.

"Aunt Kate, it's me, Mike," he said. "Listen, if I had to go see a specialist about my magic, who would I have to go to? The Witch's Council? Okay, where can I find this? A place called the Other Realm, huh? How would I get there? Oh, it explains it in one of the books, huh? Okay. No reason, I was just curious. Thanks."

With that, Mike hung up, grabbed one of his books, and began looking through it. He found the page he wanted, grabbed a pencil, and wrote down something. Then he walked over to a box he kept on the bookshelf, and pulled a blue crystal on a gold chain out of it. He put it around his neck, and started to leave.

"Where ah you going?" Davy asked.

"To find this Witch's Council and surrender my magic," Mike said.

"What?!" Davy shouted. "You're gonna ask somebody to take away your powahs?!"

"Sure," Mike said. "I'll see you later."

Davy stood up, and ran to the kitchen in order to get the others.

"Come on, fellas, we've got to follow Mike!" he shouted.

"What for?" Micky asked.

"Yeah, what's going on?" Peter asked.

"Mike's gonna give up 'is magic!" Davy shouted.

"Wha?" Micky asked, confused. "Why's he gonna do something stupid like that?!"

"I'll explain latah," Davy said. "Right now, we've got to stop Mike before 'e makes the biggest mistake of 'is life!"


	5. Soaring Success

The boys managed to catch up with Mike outside an old, abandoned house. This was where the portal to the Other Realm and the Witch's Council was. He was just about to open the door when Davy grabbed his arm.

"Stop, Mike! Stop!" he shouted.

"What are you guys doin' here?" Mike asked.

"Stopping you," Davy said. "Mike, you can't just ask the Witch's Council to get rid of your powahs!"

"Why not?" Mike asked. "Flyin' is part of a witch's or warlock's life. If I'm not gonna learn, why bother havin' all this magic?"

"Listen, flying just takes a little practice," Peter said. "Everything does! Riding a bicycle, dancing, singing, playing an instrument . . . ."

"You should talk, Pete," Mike said, folding his arms across his chest. "You're a natural at playin' instruments! You were probably playin' piano even before you could walk!"

The whole conversation wasn't going well. Mike was about to go through the door, but the three other Monkees blocked him. Mike tried to push past them, but they wouldn't move. Finally, he threw his arms up in frustration and let out a scream.

"Fine!" he shouted. "Fine! I give up! You guys win! I'm outta here."

"Where are you going?" Micky asked.

"None of your business!" Mike shouted. "I need to think."

With that, Mike stormed off. Micky and Davy were about to go after him when Peter stopped them.

"Give him a good head start," he said. "I know where he's going, anyway."

"Where _is_ he going?" Micky asked.

"Same place he goes whenever he gets depressed," Peter said.

Micky and Davy were still a little confused, but they decided to go with it. At sundown, they, along with Franky, headed over to the river, carrying a broom. Mike was leaning on the bridge, throwing rocks in the water.

"Never fails," Peter said. "Every time he gets depressed, he comes here."

Mike happened to hear them, so he looked up. Then he turned away from them. Peter walked up to him.

"Hey," he said. "Listen, what's really the matter?"

"I just can't do it, Pete," Mike said.

"Look, maybe flying a broom's just not your bag."

"Did you just come to give me a lecture?"

"You know, I should, But I won't. I just want to ask you something."

"What?"

"You can play a guitar, right?"

"Yeah, you know I can."

"Could you the first time you picked one up?"

"No. I had to practice. And the more I practiced the better I got."

"See? You didn't quit. You have to continue to practice. You'll get better, you'll see."

"But flyin' ain't like playin' guitar, Peter! I mean, I really wanted to play the guitar."

"Don't you want to fly that thing?"

"Of course I do. I really do! But . . . . I don't know, it seems the harder I try, the worse I do."

"Say that again?"

"The harder I try the worse I do."

Peter raised his hand to his chin. He began to think about that for a moment. Then he turned to Davy, Micky, and Franky and indicated them to move in closer to him for a huddle.

"I think I've discovered Mike's problem," he said.

"We already know the problem, Uncle Peter," Fluey said. "He stinks at it!"

"No, that isn't it," Peter said. "I always thought his problem was he had no control over it. I think he's downright nervous about flying. I think he's so nervous about crashing it, whenever he gets on a broom to try, he automatically crashes, because he tenses up so much."

"So you're saying he needs to relax?" Micky asked.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Give me the broom."

Davy handed Peter the broom. Then the three of them turned to Mike.

"I've discovered your problem, Mike," he said.

"I know the problem, Peter," Mike said. "I can't do it. That's my problem."

"That isn't your problem. Your problem is you're trying too hard. Every time I saw you get on a broom, you'd tense up, and get this look on your face . . . . I don't know, like you were determined to do it if it was the last thing you did, and it made you too tense. Maybe if you just relaxed a little, you'd be able to do it. Here."

Peter handed Mike the broom. Mike just stared at his friend as if he were crazy, but he got on, anyway.

"Just relax, Mike," Micky said. "Close your eyes and take a deep breath."

Mike closed his eyes and breathed deep. He rolled his shoulders a little, to loosen up his neck a little.

"Okay," Peter said. "Now do everything you usually do when flying, but instead of squeezing the broom as hard as you can, increase your grip gradually."

"I'll try," Mike said. "But if it doesn't work this time, I quit."

"Fair enough," Davy said.

Mike took a deep breath and increased his grip on the broom handle. Very slowly, he felt himself begin to go up, instead of shooting up like he usually did. He opened his eyes, and found himself in midair, floating.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, I did it! I did it!"

"You haven't done it yet, Mike," Micky said.

"You've still got to fly that thing," Davy said.

"Okay," Mike said. "Here it goes."

Mike increased his grip slowly, and he rose even higher. Then he began to move forward, at a normal speed. He was actually flying. He looked down at his friends and smiled. The four of them were jumping up and down, cheering. Mike flew forward, and Davy, Micky, Peter, and Franky ran after him. Mike circled around, and flew even higher. He looked down at his friends. They were waving to him, and cheering. He smiled, and then decided to do a final act: the landing. He loosened his grip on the broom as slowly as possible, and came down gently. Everybody crowded around him, talking at once.

"Man, that was unbelievable!" Micky shouted.

"Atta boy, Mike!" Davy shouted.

"You did it, Mike!" Franky shouted.

"I can't believe I did it," Mike said, smiling.

"Congratulations, Mike!" Peter shouted. "I knew you could do it!"

"I was tryin' too hard," Mike said. "Once I relaxed, it was a snap."

Mike got on the broom again, and proceeded another take off. He flew through the night sky, enjoying every minute of the flight, soaring with the birds. He had finally done it. Mike closed his eyes for a moment, and smiled. He felt on top of the world.

The End


End file.
